RANT

Charming David Cameron,
walks through the door
looking quite debonair,
he just keeps hanging around
pretending to care.

He's cruising for your favour
but the stink of Thatcher's breath,
stalks him everywhere
it worries me, should worry all
disturb our sleep, our waking falls.

Miniature dinosaurs
cosying up to to big business,
wearing the same hats
and their old school ties,
and their ugly transparent smiles.

Remember the last time,
nothing much has changed
they made promises then
in order to catch our vote,
still wearing the same ruddy
overcoat.

Lying is the tory's one true calling
with unblinking eyes they then attack,
champions of the privileged elite
this broken economy we live in,
an example of their twisted legacy.

Still a party of the right,
though now dressed in soft blue
the same old bullshit, the same old lies,
their smarmy handshakes
offering only a poisoned chalice.

God help the lonely and the helpless,
the old, the poor, the frial and meek,
they will kill our spirit,
they will steal the light,
the bell tolls, THIS IS A WARNING!

Spectre of another era
of divide and conquer,
the ghosts of a not to distant past,
returning to ruin this countries future
because we voted for an arse.

A KIND OF RELIGION - by Colin MacInnes.

Colin MacInnes was born on the 20th August 1914, and was known primarily as an English novelist. He was also openly bisexual, yet an outsider, a champion of youth and there many subcultures. A precursor to many pop anthropologists. He was most at ease in the coffee bars and jazz clubs of Soho and Notting Hill, author of the London Novels - Absolute Beginners, City of Spades and Mr Love and Justice from which this following essay is drawn from.
A brilliant chronicler of British life, one of the first to deeply explore its many boundaries. A broad palette he had indeed covering racial tensions, drugs, anarchy and decadence. A man of strong humanistic values and a strong moral committment, in the 1960s he became a press officer for an organisation of Blacks in Notting Hill called Defence, he was the only white person involved and became a kind of propogandist for the notorious Black Power leader-cum hustler Michael X. In 1971 on a British Council tour of Africa his behaviour was so outrageous that officials were forced to put a stop to it. Later that year the "OZ" trial on youth and censorship and the trial of the " Mangrove 9" bought out his better side. He died on April 22, 1976, the following essay I hope displays the depth of his writing, most of his books are still in print and are well worth checking out.

" I published some years ago a novel called "Mr Love & Justice".Superficially, this a realistic portrait of the worlds of the police and prostitution, and as such was kindly acclaimed by not very acute reviewers for its factual actuality. But my true intention was to write a morality, or religious allegory. Frankie Love, the professional ponce "lover", has no understanding of love, which he mistakes for mere sexuality; but he does have a profound sense of justice, and this very virtue brings about his material, if not spiritual, ruin. Edward Justice, the copper and professional upholder of the law, has no sense of justice, which he equates with power; but he does possess a deep instinct for spiritual ( as well as sexual ) love, and this, too, encompasses his material destruction. Each man, in his acts, betrays his supposed conventional virtue, and is in turn betrayed into a fall that brings truth and understanding by the real virtue of which he is unaware.
The final scene of this novel takes place in a hospital, where both men lie wounded, and where each man finally becomes, as the result of his material fall and inner illumination, identical with the other. (Hence the title "Mr Love & Justice, " and not "Mr Love & Mr Justice", which several benelovent critics said it should have been.) I had hoped this hospital scene would be read in two ways, on teo levels: both as what it is, realistically, and also as an allegory of purgatory. If read in the latter sense, the "nurses", "doctors" and invisible "specialists" take on another meaning and dimension. I planted clues all over the place, and particularly in the final paragraph, when the word "God" is used for the first and only time in the whole book.
That everyone ( so far as I know ) entirely missed the point of my endeavour may prove artistic incompetence, or perhaps that the religious instinct I thought I possessed was unconvincing; yet it may also be that the kind of person who happens to like what I write (or what he thinks I do) cannot imagine that a "serious" writer, yet one not overtly adhering to any denominational faith, would ever be compelled by a religious theme at all.
To try to situate the religious element which I concieve exists in myself and in others of my countrymen (but which the orthodox would consider not religious at all or, at best heretical), may I beg indulgence for a further autobiographical fragment.
I was reared by an unbaptized mother, and have myself never been baptized. The only tangential religious instruction I recieved was ata Presbyterian school, where my admiration for the goodness of many of my teachers was matched by the horror I felt at their theology, once I grew to understand it. I passed through the usual phase of adolescent religiosity and then, after much reading - Marx, Freud and about older rival faiths, for instance - and considerable inquiry among believers of various sects, arrived at a total doubt about historical religions which still remains with me; yet something which I take to be religious also remains.
Before trying to define this, may I please make it clear I do not wish to give offence, do not presume to be " right", nor do I of course, wish to suggest I am a good person at all. So: a personal God, an indentifiable devil, miracles ( including an immaculate conception) and any kind of physical after-life are to me not only incredible but paltry concepts. What remains?
On a radio interview not long ago with Norman Mailer (who, in contrast to the popular and partly self-created notion of him as a roaring boy and intellectual hipster, I take in fact to be an almost rabbinical moralist), the conversation turned chiefly on the concept of God. According to Mailer, God is not omnipotent, but dependent on us as we on Him. Satan was not thrown down from heaven - he tore himself out of it by the force of his own evil, and God could not prevent this. The whole universe - as each human life - consists of a creative and a destructive force. The meaning of our lives is to add to the positive, and repel the negative. In so far as we do, we survive eternally in essence. If sufficient of us fail, we help drag the whole cosmos into destruction, and all life, physical and spiritual, comes to its end.
This concept ( which is no doubt an ancient heresy, refuted by many a skilled theoligian - not to mention by atrocious religious wars) has reality for me. It explains a lot of things which in conventional theology ( and despite every twist of sophisticated logic, or the armature of an unquestioning faith), remain otherwise inexplicable. It explains why God is both omnipotent and powerless, why evil and cruelty must exist as well as good and kindness, and it explains , most pertinently of all, the imperative necessity for a constant personal choice. To act well or ill is no longer a mere matter of individual salvation, nor of pleasing God: to act well or ill involves the very existence of God, mankind, the whole firmament.
I think anyone with a feeling of this kind may have agreat awareness, and acceptance, of the laws of life that come directly and observedly from nature, and yet will constantly be conscious of an otherness, of a reality both in and outside all our lives, in function of which he also lives even if, by his deeds, he may deny it. This otherness I can best define as a perpetual sensation that life exists in ways the brain and even imagination cannot apprehend - but of which a powerfully intuitive instinct ( which I expect the orthodox mean by a soul) is constantly aware despite itself, and by no act of concious volition. Accompanying this, will be a compelling sensation that the forces of good and of creation, and evil and destruction - impersonal, eternal, locked in perpetual battle - exist in everyone and thing, and even as potent essences in themselves that cannot entirely be identified nor defined by the evidence of their effects on mankind or nature.
Persons who feel all this will not be religious, like the chuchman, by any hope of areward, but simply by necessity: for the invisible life seems as inescapably real to them as does the kife their five senses know in nature - and no one exppects rewards for recognising natural fact. Nor, for such persons, is this any matter of "belief" at all. To me, this very word is suspect, since it implies blind effort of a desperate will. I would rather say, not that I " believe" thes things, but that after forty-eight years of thinking, reading and then questioning, then to such as I am, the concept is so real as to impose itself, and thus be beyond belief..."

FROM
Spectator, February 1963

Music - Alan Norman Bold .( b, 1942)

Music is an ocean that covers the world,
An element that lets you drown in air.
It moves beyond time, rocks with rhythm,
Speaks for itself with sweet tongued tunes,
With a wierd wordless eloquence,
With a primitive chaotic power.
It is everywhere,
International in tone,
Atonal, harmonic,
Dodecaphonic;
Concerted in effort, symphonic,
Or absolutely simple and singable.
Those old wives' tales, the ballads,
Unfold ancient stories
That stall for time,
Submerge themselves.
Into the same ocean drop the names
Of the great ones whose tunes
Call out to posterity,
Beckon like bells:
Bach to Berg and beyond.
Music has no frontiers,
Being an embraceable art,
And so alongside Stravinksy
Is Elvis intoning the sameraw truth
That takes the edge off the emotions.
And you , dear Bob, with your headphones on,
Saturating yourself in Verdi and Rossini,
Are recieving and returnig
The message of music
Which is that our species
Can, by listening, survive.

(For Bob Giddings) (1983)

VERNAL EQUINOX - 3 Poems by Thomas Hardy.

words, sometimes are enough. In times dangling between extremes.

A BACKWARD SPRING

The trees are afraid to put forth buds,
And there is timidity in the grass;
The plots lie gray where gouged by spuds,
And whether next week will pass
Free of sly sour winds in the fret of each bush
Of barberry waiting to bloom.

Yet the snowdrop's face betrays no gloom,
And the primrose pants in its heedless push,
Though the myrtle asks if it's worth the fight
This year with frost and rime
To venture one more time

On delicate leaves and buttons of white
From the selfsame bough as at last year's prime,
And never to ruminate on or remember
What happened to it in mid-December.

IF ITS EVER SPRING AGAIN
(Song)

If it's ever spring again,
Spring again,
I shall go where went I when
Down the moor-cock splashed, and hen,

Seeing me not, amid their flounder,
Standing with my arm around her;
If it's ever spring again,
Spring again,
I shall go where went I then.

If it's ever summer-time,
Summer-time,
With the hay crop at the prime,
And the cuckoos- two - in rhyme,
As they used to be, or seemed to,
We shall do as long we've dreamed to,
If it's ever summer-time,
Summer-time,
With the hay, and bees achime.

THE YEARS AWAKENING
How do you know that the pilgrin track
Along the belting zodiac
Swept by the sun in his seeming rounds
Is traced by now to the Fishes' bounds
And into the Ram, when weeks of cloud
Have wrapt the sky in a clammy shroud,
And never as yet a tinct of spring
Has shown in the Earh's apparelling;
O vespering bird, how do you know,
How do you know?

How do you know, deep underground,
Hid in your bed from sight and sound,
Without a turn in temperature,
With weather life can scarce endure,
That light has won a fraction's strength,
And day put on some moments' length,
Whereof in merest rote will come,
Weeks hence, mild airs that do not numb;
O crocus root, how do you know,
How do you know?


MARCH HARES NOW BREEDING

" The Hare is a simple creature, having no defence but to run away, yet it is subtle... for she keepeth not her youngones together in one litter, but layeth them a furlong, from one another, that she may not lose them all if permadventure men or beasts light on them."

EDWARD TOPSELL " History of Four-footed Beasts " 1607

To carry a hare's foot is very lucky - but only if it contains jointed bones - and is a sovereign remedy against gout, stomach pains and insomnia.

" It is found by Experience that when one keeps a Hare alive and feedeth him, till he have occasion to eat him, if he tells him before he kills him, that he will do so, the hare will thereupon be found dead, having killed himself. "

JOHN AUBREY " Remains of Gentilism " 1688

CARDIGAN BAY SPRINGTIME

RACHEL CORRIE - Palestine mark's activist's death.

Rachel Aliene Corrie ( April 10, 1979 - March 16, 2003 ) was an American member of the International Solidarity Movement who was murdered by the Israel Defense Forces while bravely acting as a human shield while attempting to prevent IDF forces from demolishing the home of a local Palestinian pharmacist named Samir Nasrallah. This week marks 7 years since she was killed ironically by American funded Israeli bulldozers.
The Palestinian people have not forgotten her bravery. This week Ramallah residents honoured her by naming a street after her. Their was a dedication ceremony to her on Tuesday where family, friends and supporters gathered to pay there respects.
Ms Corrie's mother Cindy is visiting Israel and the Occupied Territories at themoment to take part in a wrongful death lawsuit against the Israeli government, thanked the Palestinian people for continuing to provide her family with unfailing support.
Addressing a crowd of about 50 Palestinians, including the mayor of Ramallah, Ms Corrie said: " I just wanted you to know that you do not stand alone - people are stepping up, we will not be silent. Meanwhile the killing continues, let us try not to forget this, and the occupation continues and grows with recent news that Israel's Interior Ministry's has approved of new housing for Jewish settlers in occupied East Jerusalem. Unfortunately for some there will never be any peace.
SOURCES - foreigneditor@peoples-press.com

POEM TO RACHEL CORRIE
by Hilda Silverman, USA
March 18, 2003

Whatever words might have been adequate
have become a high fluting cry

like the keening whit-tu-tu
of the unseen bird outside

my window. Allday I have been trying
to break free from the bulldozer's

blade, piled earth, steel treads fracturing
skull and chest, that moment of resistance

and protest, stilled frame reverberating
beyond the moment, like the kid

in Tiananmen Square before the tank.
Her bright orange jacket

and megaphone.
Her kind and tired eyes.

All day I have been pierced
by the high note of helplesness,

the ragged beat of despair.
Shrouded body with its blur of blood.

The quiet hands of mourners
bearing her, flag-sheathed, across the town.

*

And why was she there?
Ask the ones whose truth she saw

and sought to speak. Ask the child
sitting atop slanting slabs

of concrete, debris of his demolished home.
Ask the husband of the pregnant woman

trapped beneath crushing rubble,
the neighbor's bulldozed house

bringing their own walls down,
who cradled her toddler as she died

Ask the families - hundreds
huddled in wind-ripped tents

homes wrecked without warning
to make way for the seperation wall.

Ask the ones who aren't American
and don't make the morning news.

*

Whatever words we have are useless
against this cruel weight. The bird's cry

Keens from every crack in the edifice
of history. Before she died, Rachel Corrie wrote

of the privilege granted her, an outsider,
but denied to those under occupation.

"I have a home.
I am allowed to go see the ocean."


Hilda Silverman is a writer and member of Visions of Peace with Justice in Israel/Palestine (VOPJ), an association of Jews in Greater Boston working to promote a lasting peace between Israelis and Palestinians.

SNOWDROPS -By Cynan ( A.E.Jones, Archdruid 1895-1970).

I heard no trumpet sounding
Through winter's sombre tomb,
Nor noise of angels rolling
Grim headstones; in my room
I slept as deeply unconcerned
As Pilate, when there died,
After his base betrayal,
The One they crucified:
But spring's gay resurrection
Stirred all the country-side.
For when I woke at daybreak
And looked towards the moor,
Behold, a thousand snowdrops
Were crowding at my door...
" All in their gleaming raiment,
White as the crested wave,
And glorious like their master
New-risen from the grave."

TRANSLATED from the Welsh by A.G.PRYS-JONES.

LINTON KWESI JOHNSON - Revaluueshanary Dub Poet.

Linton Kwesi Johnson, aka LKJ,  is arguably the most influential Black British poet. Born 24th of August 1952 in Chapelton, a small town in the rural parish of Clarendon, Jamaica. He came to London in 1963, attended Tulse Hill secondary school, and later studied Sociology at Goldsmiths’ College, University of London (graduating in 1973), which currently holds his personal papers in its archives. While still at school he joined the Black Panthers, helping to organise a poetry workshop within the movement. In 1977 he was awarded a C. Day Lewis Fellowship, and was the writer-in-residence for the London Borough of Lambeth for that year. He went on to work as the Library Resources and Education Officer at the Keskidee Centre, the first home of Black theatre and art. 

Much of Johnson's poetry is political, dealing primarily with the experiences of being an African-Caribbean in Britain. "Writing was a political act and poetry was a cultural weapon", he told an interviewer in 2008. He has also written about issues such as British foreign policy, and the death of anti-racist marcher Blair Peach, whose Reggae Fi Peach in 1979, remains, like much of his work, seminal.  His most striking and celebrated work was arguably produced in the 1980's, with Johnson’s spirit of anger and protest finding its ideal subject and opposite under Margaret Thatcher's Conservative government. 

Poems such as 'Sonny's Lettah' and 'Di Great Insohreckshan' contain accounts of police brutality upon young black men, and capture the period’s unwritten attitude of resistance and antagonism in their empathic descriptions of rioting and imprisonment. Told via the uncompromising, yet generous and inventive use of  Jamaican patois, the poems are alive with Johnson’s relish of the tics and rhythms of spoken language.

The 'world's first dub poet', he coined the term dub poetry in the mid-seventies to describe Jamaican DJs 'toasting' over the instrumental B-sides of reggae songs. It stuck to his own work, which blends reggae's bass rhythm with his spoken voice. 

Johnson's poems first appeared in the journal Race Today, who published his debut collection, Voices of the Living and the Dead, in 1974. His second collection, Dread Beat An' Blood, was published in 1975 by Bogle-L'Ouverture, and shares its title with his first LP, released by Virgin in 1978. That year also saw the release of a documentary film about Johnson’s work of the same name. Inglan Is A Bitch, his third book, came out in 1980.  

In 2005 he was awarded a silver Musgrave medal from the Institute of Jamaica for distinguished eminence in the field of poetry. Johnson is the second living poet, and the only black poet, to be published in the Penguin Classics series: Mi Revalueshanary Fren in 2002, with a Selected following in 2006. 

Kweisi Johnson's written work is only one small part of his artistic output, he has also over the years released some outstanding records mixing his voice with a heady dub style. Through this work he has reached outside to people who perhaps have not been drawn to poetry , known perhaps primarily as a performance poet, who offers  you no compromise , with his powerful  words, Music, politics and poetry what more could you ask for?.

Johnson's albums have sold more than 2 million copies, he commands huge audiences worldwide, and his poetic artistry is now praised in the Poetry Review. His best known records include his debut "Dread Beat An' Blood", "Forces of Victory", "Bass Culture" and "Making History". Across these albums are spread classics of the dub poetry school of performance - and, indeed, of reggae itself. 
In the dark days of Thatcher's Britain I remember his "messages from the frontline " his angry voice mirroring ours. Well he's still taking risks, passionate, and inspiring, not afraid to experiment and push boundaries. A mature  people's  poet  of much passion  mixing plain speaking and metaphor. who is still thrillingly subversive. Always on the side of those resisting racism, harassment and oppression. 
" Inglan is a bitch " still but lucky for us their is a voice that refuses to go away . It demands justice and may his struggle become ours. Lets together say no to fascism and intolerance.
Meanwhile I'll leave you with some of his words. Read them out loud.

FITE DEM BACK

we gonna smash their brains in
cause they ain't got nofink in 'em
we gonna smash their brains in
cause they ain't got nofink in 'em..

some a dem say dem a niggah haytah
an' some a dem say dem a black beatah
some a dem say dem a black stabah
an' some a dem say dem a paki bashah

fashist an di attack
noh baddah worry 'bout dat
fashist an di attack
wi wi' fite dem back
fashist an di attack
den wi countah -attack
fashist an di atack
den wi drive dem back

we gonna smash their brains in
cause they ain't got nofink in 'em
we gonna smash their brais in
cause they ain't got nofink in em

REALITY POEM

dis is di age of reality
but some a wi a deal wid mitalagy
dis is di age of science an 'teknalagy
but some a wi a check fi antiquity

w'en wi can't face reality
wi leggo wi clarity
some latch aan to vanity
some hol' insanity
some geet vision
start preach relijin
but dem can't mek decishan
w'en itcome to wi fite
dem can't mek decishan
w'en it comes to wi rites

man,
dis is di age af reality
but some awi a deal wid mitalagy
dis is di age af science an' teknalagy
but some a wi a check fi antiquity

dem one deh gaan outta line
dem naw live in fi wi time
far dem seh dem get sign
an' dem bline dem eye
to de lite a di worl'
an' gaan search widin
di dark a dem doom
an' a shout 'bout sin
instead a fite fi win
man,
dis is di age af reality
but some a wi deal wid mitalagy
dis is di age af science an' teknalagy
but some a wi a check fi antiquity

dis is di age af decishan
soh mek wi leggo relijan
dis is di age af decishan
dis is di age af reality
soh mek wi leggo mitalagy
dis is di age of science an' teknalagy
soh mek wi hol' di clarity
mek wi hol' di clarity
mek wi hol' di clarity

SEASONS OF THE HEART

Bequiled
by blue moon
O enchanting light

we lost our way
like lovers sometime do
searching wide-eyed
for wild flowers
in the 'fragrant forest of the night '

now memories
slowly drifton by
like grey clouds
against a sombre winter sky
and all our yeasterdays are now become
the springtime of our days

life is the greatest teacher
love is the lesson to be learnt
like how the heart's seasons shift
how the sweet smelling blossoms of spring
are soon become the icy arrows of winter's sting
how spring intoxicated by the sun
now throws off her green gown
and summer's golden smile is soon become
the frown of autumn's brown
how passion spent we droop like sapless vines
in the winter of our minds

SENSE OUT OF NANSENSE

di innocent an di fool could pass fi twin
but haas a haas
an mule a mule
mawgah mean mawgah
it noh mean slim

yet di two a dem in camman share someting

dem is awftin canfused an get used
dem is awftin criticised an campamised
dem is awftin villified an reviled
dem is awftin foun guilty widout being tried

wan ting set di two a dem far apawt dow
di innocent wi hawbah dout
check tings out
an maybe fine out
but di fool
cho...

di innocent an di fool could pass fi twin
but like a like
an love a love
a pidgin is a pidgin
an a dove is a dove

yet di two a dem in camman share someting
demis awftin anticipated an laywaited
dem is awftin patronised an penalised
dem is awfin castigated an implicated

wan ting set di two a dem far apawt dow
di innocent wi hawbah dout
check tings out
an maybe fine out
but di fool
cho...

di innocent an di fool could paas fi twin
but rat a rat
an mouse a mouse
flea a flea
an louse a louse

yet di two a dem in camman share something

dem is awftin decried an denied
dem is awftin ridiculed an doungraded
dem is sometimes kangratulated an celebrated
dem is sometimes suprised an elated
but as yu mite have already guess
dem is awftin foun wantin more or less

dus spoke di wizen wans of ole
dis is a story nevah told

ALL WI DOIN IS DEFENDIN

war... war...
mi seh lissen
oppressin man
hear what I say if yu can
wi have
a grevious blow fi blow

wi will fite yu in di street wid we han
wi have a plan
soh lissen man
get ready fi tek some blows

doze days
of di truncheon
an doze nites
of melancholy locked in a cell
doze hours of torture touchin hell
doze blows dat caused my heart to swell
were well
numbered
and are now
at an end

all wi doin
is defendin
soh get yu ready
fi war... war...
freedom is a very firm thing
all oppression
can do is bring
passion to di eights of eruption
an songs of fire wi will sing

no... no...
noh run
yu did soun yu siren
an is war now
war... war...

di Special Patrol
will fall
like a wall force doun
or a toun turn to dus
even dow dem think dem bold
wi know dem cold like ice wid fear
an wi is fire!
choose yu weapon dem
quick!
all wi need is bakkles an bricks an sticks
wi hav fist
wi fav feet
wi carry dandamite in wi teeth

sen fi di riot squad
quick!
cause wi runin wild
wi bittah like bile
blood will guide
their way
an I say
all wi doin
is defendin
soh set yu ready
fi war... war...
freedom is avery fine thing

REGGAE FI PEACH :   

Everywhere you go its the talk of the day, 

Everywhere you go you hear people say, 

That the Special Patrol them are murderers (murderers), 

We cant make them get no furtherer, 

The SPG them are murderers (murderers),

We cant make them get no furtherer,

Cos they killed Blair Peach the teacher,

Them killed Blair Peach, the dirty bleeders.

Blair Peach was an ordinary man,

Blair Peach he took a simple stand,

Against the fascists and their wicked plans, 

So them beat him till him life was done. 

Everywhere you go its the talk of the day,

Everywhere you go you hear people say,

That the Special Patrol them are murderers (murderers),

We cant make them get no furtherer, 

The SPG them are murderers (murderers), 

We cant make them get no furtherer,

Cos they killed Blair Peach the teacher,

Them killed Blair Peach, the dirty bleeders. 

Blair Peach was not an English man, 

Him come from New Zealand,

Now they kill him and him dead and gone,

But his memory lingers on. 

Oh ye people of England, 

Great injustices are committed upon this land,

How long will you permit them, to carry on?

Is England becoming a fascist state? 

The answer lies at your own gate, 

And in the answer lies your fate.

INGLAN IS A BITCH

w'en mi jus' come to Landan toun
mi use to work pan di andahdroun
but workin' pan di andahgroun
y'u don't get fi knowyour way aroun'

Inglan is a bitch
dere's no escapin' it
Inglan is a bitch
dere's no runnin' whey fram it

mi get a lickle jab in a big 'otell
an' awftah a while, mi woz doin' quite well
dem staat mi aaf as a dish-washah
but w'en mi tek a stack, mi noh turn clack - watchah!

Ingan is a bitch
dere's no escapin it
Inglan is a bitch
noh baddah try fi hide fram it

w'en dem gi' youdi lickle wage packit
fus dem rab it wid dem big tax rackit
y'u haffi struggle fi mek en's meet
an' w'en y'u goh a y'u bed y'u jus' cant sleep

Inglan is a bitch
dere's no escapin' it
Inglan is a bitch fi true
a noh lie mi a tell, a true

mi use to work dig ditch w'en it cowl noh bitch
mi did strang like amule, but, bwoy, mi did fool
den awftah a while mi jus' stap dhu ovahtime
den awftah a while mi jus' phu dung mi tool

Inglan is a bitch
dere's no escaping it
Inglan is a bitch
y'u haffi know how fi survive in it

well mi dhu day wok an' mi dhu nite wok
mi dhu clean wok an' mi dhu dutty wok
dem seh dat black man is very lazy
but if y'u si how mi wok y'u woulda sy mi crazy

Ingan is a bitch
dere's no escapin it
Inglan is a bitch
y'u bettah face up to it

dem have a lickle facktri up inna Brackly
inna disya facktri all dem dhu is pack crackry
fi di laas fifteen years dem get mi laybah
now awftah fifteen years mi fall out a fayvah

Inglan is a bitch
dere's no escapin' it
Inglan is a bitch
dere's no runnin' whey fram it

mi know dem have work, work in abundant
yet still, dem mek mi redundant
now, at fifty-five mi gettin' quite ol'
yet still, dem sen' mi fi goh draw dole

Inglan is a bitch
dere's no escapin' it
Inglan is a bitch fi true
is whey wi a goh dhu 'bout it?

EARTH MOTHER for Mickey Jones & Mark Linkhous, R.I.P,

1. 

Crouched at the third door
a robin pecks , it's little wings flapping,
before it's chased away by a three-legged fox.
Peace eyes full of light,
shine down through scented woods,
dream letters offer sweet surrender
as everything about to bloom,
the bushes, the hedgegrows,oblivious to mass parades,
marinade's for the heart
a school of greenflies chatter at breakfast,
all is calm, all is near,
no flags, no borders,
no partition, no destruction,
green bottlenecks crawl
on her muscled limbs,
no destination, no surrender,
prayer meeting over
we retreat into the forest
deeper, deeper
into it's beautiful, translucent sanctuary.
sprayed all over by harmony,
we breathe deep
into the real
and further out.
We are allowed to shelter
in these moments,
as senses fall.
The seeds are waking
the earth burns like the sun
but a thousand times
more beautiful.
We sing our songs,
and in the faraway
a guitar soars,
up high, on and on.
Riding electric waves
to a different land,
the roots carve a wake
as ectasy showers.
Fresh dew
skins up the dust.
gravity is weightless.
hunger a new experience,
comes out to play

Keep on dancing

"Dancing, or saltation, is both a pleasant and a profitable art, which confers and preserves health: it is proper to youth, agreeable to the old, and suitable for all, provided fitness of time and place are observed....
And it is a useful device for ascertaining whether a person be defourmed by the gout... or if they emit an unpleasant odour, as of dead meat."
Arbeau " Orchesographie " 1588

"What clipping, what culling, what kissing and bussing, what smouching and slobbering of one another, what filthy groping and unclean handling is not practiced everywhere in these dancing? And wheras they conclude it is a wholesome exercise for the body, the contrary is most true: for I have known divers, by the immoderate use thereof, have become decripit and lame. Some have broke their legs with skipping, leaping, turning and vaulting, and some have come by one hurt, some by another: but never came thence without some part of his mind broken and lame."
Phillip Stubbes " The Anatomy of Abuses" 1576

NEW WORLD ODOR - Mark Vallen

Just as the need for labor in the United States fostered the development of a Chicano consciousness, Chicano identity has often been expressed in terms of personal and cultural development at the bridge of various systems of economic, cultural and political exchange.
This awareness is reflected in the above work, it's title taken from what President George Herbert Walker Bush used in the early 90s to convey what he thought of the world after the Soviet Union had fallen.
The poster suggests the new world order means nothing but the same carnage under a different regime. The pile of skulls tumbling toward the viewer presents a dark vision of what awaits us in a world dominated by capital and commerce. The gothic lettering reference the typography of the Nazis, perhaps suggesting that the fall of communism has ensured the triumph of fascistic forces. No pasaran!